


Unconscious

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Gekkan Shoujo Nozaki-kun
Genre: Blushing, Drawing, Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied Slash, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-12 08:49:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2103114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Nozaki is a deep sleeper, and Mikoshiba is bored." Nozaki falls asleep in the middle of the day and leaves Mikoshiba with more pens than he should be trusted with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unconscious

Nozaki is a deep sleeper, and Mikoshiba is bored.

He doesn’t mind Nozaki sleeping. It’s a Saturday, it’s not like they have anything else to do, and honestly falling asleep in the warm glow of sunlight from the window sounds like a great idea. But Mikoshiba is full of restless energy, too wide awake to let the lull of midafternoon boredom pull him into unconsciousness and worried that even the deep draw of sleep for Nozaki will break if he keeps fretting alongside the other boy. He doesn’t really want to leave either, though. Nozaki’s skin is warm against his, he can hear the soft whisper of Nozaki’s breathing when he doesn’t move, and with the other boy still and unaware Mikoshiba can stare at him without self-consciousness hitting him, can catalog the slight frown his mouth relaxes into and the pattern of his eyelashes dark against his cheek.

Nozaki doesn’t shift even when Mikoshiba sits up next to him, the motion sliding the sheet over them down around Nozaki’s hips so the sunlight glances off the pale skin of his back. Mikoshiba is reaching out before he thinks, trailing his fingertips down against the curve of Nozaki’s spine, but the other boy doesn’t move, his breathing doesn’t falter, and after a moment Mikoshiba pulls his hand back up, sweeps his hand out to press his palm in against the smooth skin of the other boy’s shoulder. Nozaki’s arm is relaxed against the bed, his breathing so regular and slow it barely moves his body at all, and with the light against it his skin looks like nothing so much as a blank page, a canvas begging for the adornment of ink.

Mikoshiba isn’t thinking when he starts to drag his hand in a curve over Nozaki’s back. The shape makes sense in his wrist, the promise of a pattern soothes his thoughts for a moment; but he’s not holding a pen, and Nozaki’s not paper, after all, and there’s nothing there when his hand shifts, no record of the motion of his hand. He makes a face that no one sees, a frown of frustration, and then he turns his head sideways and sees the container of pens on the table a few feet away.

He moves before he thinks about it at all, before he has even contemplated what exactly he’s going to  _do_  with the ink. Mikoshiba has become very skilled at acting first and thinking later, and this is no exception; he’s uncapped the pen, tested it on his own skin to figure out the right pressure to draw ink over a person instead of paper, and is just climbing back over Nozaki to straddle his hips when the back of his head catches up with the impulse of his muscles, starts to voice at least some curiosity about what exactly he’s planning. Mikoshiba hesitates, the pen settled into his hand and Nozaki warm under him, tries to remember why, exactly, this seems so irresistible.

Then the sunlight slides past the half-drawn curtains, sends a flicker of fresh light skating across Nozaki’s shoulders, and Mikoshiba is leaning down, setting the pen to Nozaki’s skin and bracing himself just over the other boy’s shoulder as beauty blossoms from the ink slipping across Nozaki’s back. He doesn’t have to think about it at all; his boredom settles into focus, the strange glazed non-attention of drawing, like his hand is demanding the full focus of his brain and his thoughts are free to fade into silence. Mikoshiba doesn’t realize he’s humming, idle vibration in the back of his throat and over his tongue and down into his lower lip, caught gently between his teeth. The ink dries dark against Nozaki’s skin in the wake of his pen, petals and leaves spiraling out across his shoulder and down over the slight dip of his spine; the unfamiliar angle of three dimensions pulls the almost-pattern darker, closer on itself, like it’s clustering in against the main stem of the other boy’s back before falling out into looser designs over the wider space near his arms.

“What are you doing?”

It’s only Mikoshiba’s practice at pulling his pen up instead of sideways that saves Nozaki from a trailing line of panic over his back. His focus shattered apart, his heart speeds into instant overdrive, and when he blinks down he realizes he’s drawn flowers across most of Nozaki’s back.

“Drawing?” he offers, hesitant with the startled adrenaline pounding through his pulse.

“On me?”

Mikoshiba looks away from Nozaki’s shoulders, up at what he can see of the other boy’s face. Nozaki is watching him sideways but he doesn’t look upset as much as faintly intrigued, like he can’t quite get a grip on what Mikoshiba is doing. Mikoshiba can feel his blush start even before he opens his mouth, can feel the self-consciousness dragging his tongue stuttering and uncooperative even before he reaches for words.

“Y-yeah. You -- you were asleep and -- the sun was s-shining on your skin --”

“It feels good,” Nozaki says, his tone so flat that Mikoshiba thinks it’s a reprimand before he processes the words. “You can keep going.”

Mikoshiba stops talking. The heat in his cheeks starts to spill down his face, spread out into his shoulders and over his chest, but Nozaki has shut his eyes again and doesn’t see. Mikoshiba’s not sure if he’s drifting back to sleep or not; he’s not actually sure when the other boy woke up, even, how long he stayed quiet while Mikoshiba traced dark patterns across his skin. That idea, that maybe Nozaki was lying still and silent and  _awake_  the whole time, brings an entire new wave of heat to Mikoshiba’s skin; he brings his hand up to cover his face, whimpers in panicked embarrassment before he can think through the reaction.

“What’s wrong?” Nozaki asks without moving. “It’s fine, Mikorin. Keep going.”

His words shouldn’t be a comfort. Nozaki sounds perfectly level, calm and cool and unembarrassed, and Mikoshiba can barely stand to even exist in the burning self-awareness of his own skin. But the cool is a comfort against the burn, chills the edge of panic down to comfortable warmth, and when Mikoshiba lets his hand fall to risk a glance at Nozaki’s face the other boy is smiling, conscious pleasure inverting the natural neutrality of sleep.

Mikoshiba stares at the curve resting against Nozaki’s mouth, at the shape of satisfaction  _he_  caused, as clear evidence of Nozaki’s pleasure as the relaxation settling the other boy warm and languid against the sheets. Then he looks down and brings his hand back to rest against Nozaki’s skin.

When he pulls the pen down, the line he shapes looks like that unconscious affection.


End file.
